


The Great Game

by Nwar



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - The Great Gatsby Fusion, Angst, Brief drug use, Diogenes Club, Domestic, F/M, Fluffy, Great Gatsby AU, Happily Ever After, Happy Ending, Infidelity, Inspired by The Great Gatsby, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Romance, The Pool Scene (Sherlock), Unhealthy Relationships, Unrequited Love, but not a bad character death, you'll be relieved they die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 06:08:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20041159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nwar/pseuds/Nwar
Summary: Gregory Lestrade finds a tiny flat amongst the rich and fashionable London elite on Baker Street. Some parts of the past, however, come to the foreground as he meets his neighbors.





	1. Chapter 1

Five years ago, John met the most incredible, effervescent, brilliant man in the world.   
John was staying at Oxford, where he was posted for some months to finish his surgical residency before being shipped out, when he met Sherlock Holmes.   
Sherlock was tall, and slim, and every single man and woman in the place turned to look at him when he walked by. He was beautiful, yes, face like cut crystal with plush lips and playful eyes, but he also held himself in such a way that each person who saw him wanted a taste. He gave off a glow, a light of health and composure.   
Every man who saw him wanted to be him, and every woman wanted to love him. A few of the women wanted to be him, and more of the men wanted to love him, too.   
John saw him, and fell in love.   
The first words out of Sherlock’s mouth to John were, “You’re going to Afghanistan, I presume?”   
And with that deduction, John knew he would dedicate his life to making this man happy, and keeping him within hearing distance. He never wanted another word from Sherlock’s mouth to be wasted on dumb ears. He wanted Sherlock to always be appreciated and loved, to be admired by all who crossed his path.   
During those five months he was at Oxford, he followed Sherlock everywhere. They went for daily walks together. As Sherlock failed classes from boredom and lack of effort, John comforted him and railed against the professors for not seeing his genius. As John trained for basic, Sherlock lovingly wiped the sweat from his brow. They spent almost every waking moment together.   
Sherlock was from one of the most prestigious families in England, not that John cared. When Sherlock asked, after a month and a half of him orbiting Sherlock like a planet to a star, what John’s last name was, he lied.   
And that is when Jonathan Watts died, and John Watson was born.   
***  
Gregory Lestrade was looking forward to moving close to the city. He’d found a little apartment, a closet, really, in one of the most fashionable neighborhoods in London. The price was amazing, rent controlled, and the little old lady that’d lived there wanted to pass it on to Lestrade. He was rather excited, really.   
He was on the second floor above a boutique cafe, crammed between two large flats. He was only a ten minute drive to Scotland Yard, and his new job as detective inspector. The building he lived in was sleek, glass and steel. It was modern, but built with obvious style and taste.   
Across a wide roadway (or what constitutes a wide roadway in central London), was another block of flats. These flats were not modern; they were old, Victorian, even. They were fine marble and stucco, styled in grecian boughs and finely carved finials. Lestrade didn’t pay them much mind, until he saw the green dot.   
It blinked on and off in the window of the highest flat across the street, on the third floor. He couldn’t see it except at night, but it was bright. If he had to guess, it was some sort of electronic. He didn’t know why, but the green light caught his attention, and left a sort of mystery in his stomach.   
It was a few days after he’d moved in, and two after he’d noticed the light, that he noticed the stream of visitors to his neighbor’s flat. The door to the flat to Greg’s left, directly across from the green light flat, opened and closed frequently with all manner of guests. People came, rang the doorbell, entered for a few moments to an hour, and then left. Greg would guess that it was some sort of prostitution thing if he didn’t know how very, very wealthy the people in this area were. Also, there was no rhyme or reason to the visitors of 221; they were young, old, various races, men, women, teenagers, children. It seemed people from every walk of life came to test the wood of his neighbor’s door.   
And every night, still, the green light in the upper window blinked.   
***  
Greg’s car was stolen. His new, police-issue sedan was stolen. It’d been taken from where it was parked, directly in front of the cafe. His flat didn’t have a door from the street like the other wealthy occupants; he had to go through Speedy’s to reach his entrance.   
He came home on the bus, and stopped in the cafe to have a despondent slice of pie. “I just don’t understand how someone could steal a car around here. I mean, this has got to be one of the safest areas in London. Everyone’s so wealthy.”   
The owner of Speedy’s, a balding, thin man, snorted. “I’d tell you to take it up with Watson.”   
Lestrade looked at him. “Who?”   
A woman on the next stool over looked over at Greg in shock. “Watson? You don’t know? And you live so close!”   
The owner shook his head. “If you want a mystery solved, Watson is your man. All of London knows that.”   
“I did tell the station, I mean, they have an APB out.”   
“But Watson will find it sooner,” a middle aged man said from a booth behind him. “How do you live in jolly old London without hearing of Watson?”   
Greg endeavored to go over and meet this Watson for himself, but before he could, he found a note slipped through the mail slot of his tiny flat.   
It read simply; I heard of your unfortunate vehicular loss. Please apply 221 for more information.  
If Lestrade was a smarter man, he may read it as a threat. But as it was, he wanted to know what’d happened to his car, and the rest of the force was doing very little to help him that way.   
The next morning, he was standing in the foyer of the finest flat he’d ever seen in his life. Every curve was gilded in gleaming, flawless chrome. Every flat was the deepest, glossiest black. The furniture was architectural, and each piece of modern art probably cost more than Greg’s yearly wages.   
“Ah, you must be detective inspector Lestrade,” a man said warmly, coming out from a doorway with his hands clasped in front of him. “John Watson, somewhat of a detective myself. Well come in, my dear man, have a seat in the kitchen.”   
The man, a compact, well-dressed blond that was going grey, led him to a leather armchair in the flat’s dining area. He poured him out a cup of tea from the fine china that was appointed.   
“Now, I understand you’ve lost your car, is that correct?”   
Lestrade looked John Watson over as he answered. “Yes, taken right from under my nose, right out there on Baker Street.”   
Watson furrowed his brows worriedly. “Yes, terrible, truly. I will find it for you right away, but in the meantime, I insist you use one of mine.”   
Lestrade shook his head. “That’s very kind of you mister Watson--”  
“John, please, you must call me John, dear man.”   
“John. I can’t just use your car, that was an officially issued police vehicle.”  
“As I said, I’ll send my staff out to find it. But truly, it is not bother to me at all to lend you mine,” John walked over to the wide window, gesturing for Greg to follow. “See, there it is now.”  
Below in the street, a bright silver Audi pulled in and parked in front of the door. Lestrade had to admit that it was gorgeous, and he would rather enjoy driving such a luxurious car until the police sorted his out.   
Lestrade reluctantly agreed, and enjoyed the use of John’s Audi for only a few days before his police vehicle was returned, unscathed, to the street in front of Speedy’s. He found the keys put through his mail slot. Lestrade did the same with the keys to the Audi, which disappeared back into what Lestrade presumed was storage the next day.   
After a few weeks, Lestrade’s phone rings.   
“Hello?” He asks the unknown number.   
“Dearest Gregory,” a smooth voice replies. “You cannot imagine my shock that I am reclining by the window when I see my very own cousin walk into the cafe across the street.”  
“Oh, Sherlock! You live on Baker Street?”   
“Yes! Of course, you must come over, we must have dinner.”   
Sherlock had a voice that compelled even the most stubborn of objections, and Lestrade wasn’t particularly opposed. He agreed.   
“Wonderful. It’ll be you, and me, and James, and my good friend Molly Hooper. You know Molly, don’t you? The famous lady scientist?”   
Lestrade stuttered out a response that he thought he’d seen her give a speech on television sometime.   
“Well, you’re going to love her. I have a hunch that you two are going to get along quite well. Come across the street around eight tonight and the doorman will let you in.”   
Lestrade hung up, and shuddered to think of the lifestyle that lent itself to a doorman in a London flat.   
Later on, he crossed the street to the classically styled flats on the opposite side. He turned to look back at his side, and all the sleek glass. It looked new and expensive, but also cold.


	2. Chapter 2

Lestrade felt underdressed as he sat at the table in Sherlock’s home. It was a beautiful table, overlarge, finely milled wood with hand carved legs. It matched the decor; expensive, tasteful, antique, and full of class.  
“I abhor tablecloths,” Sherlock said, leaning across the corner of the table to Greg. “Do you know why they were invented? So that victorian men wouldn’t get aroused from looking at the leg of a table. Can you imagine?”  
Lestrade giggled. Sherlock was not a cousin he spoke to often, but was a wonderful conversationalist. Next to him was the famous lady scientist, Molly Hooper. Despite his stuttering earlier, he did recognize her once he saw the face.  
He chanced a glance over at her now, and found her quite agreeable to look at. He could well imagine a future where he kissed her. He turned back to Sherlock, who was smiling at him knowningly.  
“And here, we have the bird!” Sherlock’s husband intoned dramatically, bringing in the roast chicken on a platter and setting it on the table. He took out a large knife and rather enthusiastically started cutting it.  
Sherlock winced as a spray of lemon juice shot out of a juicy bit of skin. “Jim, a bit more delicacy, please.”  
“Oh, I don’t think butcheries ever call for someone more delicate,” Jim retorted, smiling down at Sherlock. Greg felt an uneasy roil in his gut at the smile, like it was simply a show of teeth instead of a reassurance.  
“So, Jim, I understand you're a banker,” Greg said politely once everyone had had a slice of chicken dispensed to their plates.  
“I was, Greg,” Jim said with flair. “I was the best around. Of course, that’s all over now. I received a rather large retirement bonus,” here Jim leaned over his plate to look up at Greg from under his lashes conspiratorially, “which I’m sure I couldn’t impart any details on.”  
He leaned back in his chair, popping a large bite of chicken into his mouth. “But of course, that doesn’t matter, since I used it to buy this little nest for my sweet songbird.”  
Jim looked over at Sherlock in a mockery of fondness. Sherlock smiled uneasily.  
After the meal, which passed in restive light conversation, Sherlock led Greg through the flat to the other side.  
To Greg’s shock, the flat extended entirely through the building to the other side; on which Sherlock and Jim had a balcony overlooking the nearby park.  
Sherlock stood on the balcony, face upturned to the light mist, while Greg stood uncomfortably by the sliding door.  
“Jim doesn’t love me. I think he has another man on the side,” Sherlock said lightly, eyes still closed.  
“I’m sorry to hear that.”  
“I feel comfortable telling you,” Sherlock said, turning back toward Greg. “I’ve always felt comfortable sharing with you.”  
Greg nodded, unsure what he was meant to say here. He felt a world removed from his little desk at Scotland Yard.  
“Jim didn’t want me working, once we’d married. Said I was better suited to being in the home, anyway. I decorated all in there,” Sherlock said, waving a hand to indicate the flat in general.  
“It’s lovely,” Greg said.  
“It didn’t matter really, since I had such a large endowment from my parents. I could do anything.”  
“You still could,” Greg said, unsure what exactly they were talking about.  
Sherlock sighed, and turned back to lean over the railing, pulling a silver cigarette case from the pocket of his formal dressing gown. “I really couldn’t. I’m grateful at least that Jim lets me have use of a computer.” Sherlock lit a cigarette and exhaled the fumes in the direction of the damp, green trees of the park. “Otherwise I’d have blown my brains out years ago.”  
It was only later, when Greg was climbing the stairs to his own small flat, that he realized he’d forgotten to ask about the green light.  
***  
A few days later, he gets a call. The caller ID flashes with “Sherlock--cousin”, which Greg had put in after receiving the call from Sherlock originally.  
“Sherlock, hey,” Greg said, locking his car and walking toward Speedy’s.  
“It’s Jim,” his voice replied shortly. “Look, how would you like to take a little trip with me. Sherlock wanted us to bond or whatever.”  
Greg was stopped on the pavement in surprise. “Um.”  
“Well I’ll go round the garage and pick up my wheels,” Jim said easily. “Just stay out there on the pavement and I’ll get you in a moment.”  
The call ended before Greg could object. When the bright red sports car pulled up to the curb, he climbed in.  
Jim Moriarty drove precociously fast in London, breaking every traffic rule while chewing gum and laughing at texts on his phone. Greg gripped the seat, wincing at every horn that blared as they passed.  
“Jim, you know, I am a police officer, and you really are breaking a lot of--”  
Jim sped up as they neared a t-shaped intersection. If they continued straight, they would be crashing right into the building. “What was that Greggy?”  
Jim wasn’t looking at the building directly in front of them, nor taking his foot off the accelerator, but instead smiling directly at Greg and popping his gum between his teeth.  
“Jim, please,” Greg whimpered, eyes flashing between the building ahead and Jim’s shining eyes.  
Jim laughed uproariously, like Greg had just told the most hilarious joke, before stomping on the brakes and careening around the corner.  
Finally, they arrived in a rather seedy part of London, and stopped in front of a bar.  
“This is our destination, Greggy,” Jim said in a light, eager voice. He flung himself out of the car, slamming the door behind him. Greg hurried to follow.  
The bar inside was not much better than the outside, that is to say; dark, dirty, and rundown.  
“Sebastian, baby,” Jim called out, spreading his arms wide to wrap around a muscular, blond man. “This is my friend Greg Lestrade.” He put his lips right up Sebastian’s ear and said in a stage whisper while looking at Greg, “He’s a police officer!”  
Sebastian smirked at him, and then bent his head down to kiss Jim full on the mouth. When they disengaged, Greg was looking at Jim with his mouth hanging open.  
“What, that’s not illegal anymore, is it?” Sebastian teased, smirking at Greg.  
Was this why Jim had brought him here? To see his affair?  
“C’mon mister copper, we’ve got more fun things to get on with,” Jim smiled, wrapping an arm around Sebastian’s thickly muscled waist and walking toward a door at the back of the bar.  
Inside, the air was smoky and gruff voices chattered lowly. Sebastian sat down in a wooden chair at a poker table, and Jim delicately perched on his lap. Greg took the only empty seat left next to them.  
As the cards were dealt, a small mirror was passed to Jim, who snorted up the powder before passing it to Greg. He looked up at Jim in amazement, who giggled when he realized his mistake. A few more hands passed like this, Jim drinking or snorting or snogging Sebastian between bets and antes. The other members of the table seemed used to this behavior, and didn’t exchange any words about it.  
It was nearing the time Greg usually went to bed when Jim and Sebastian were put against each other at the cards. Every other member at the table had folded or lost all of their chips.  
“Jimmy, I think you should just give up the hand,” Sebastian said.  
“I don’t want to,” Jim replied haughtily.  
“You know my cards are better,” Sebastian said.  
“It’s not about cards being better, it’s having more cards,” Jim snapped. “The person with the deck decides the game.”  
Greg could tell they weren’t simply arguing about poker.  
Sebastian pushed all of his chips into the middle, leaning around Jim, who still sat on his lap. “I’m all in.”  
Jim laid down his cards. He had a straight flush. “Well, I win because of your stupid mistake.”  
He stood quickly, leaving his winnings behind on the table. “Come on, Greg, we’re leaving.”  
Sebastian glared at Jim’s back as Greg followed him out the door and back to the car.

That night, when he walked from Jim's car back across to his side of Baker street, he thought he saw a silhouette up there in the window of Watson's flats, briefly illuminated by the flash of the green light.


	3. Chapter 3

Greg hated going down to the morgue. He didn’t mind fresh bodies so much, when he arrived on the scene and the dead person was laying there as if just down for a bloody nap. The morgue, however, gave him the spooks. It was a place made just for death, and the emptiness inside, the lack of life, put him off.   
Today, he was consulting with Molly Hooper on a poisoning case. She had the body in her lab, and was carefully extracting samples of blood, urine, and marrow to try to find any trace of what had killed the man. He waited patiently as she dropped each from a syringe into a dish, and looked at them under a microscope.   
“Oh, hello, my dear man!” Watson said, pushing open the door to the morgue. “I didn’t expect to see you here, Greg.”   
Greg nodded uncomfortably. “I didn’t expect to see you here, either.”   
“I’m working on a poisoning case for my client. He suspects the same person who did this is going to come after himself.”   
A light bulb went off in Greg’s head. “You’re a private detective?”   
Watson smiled. Greg didn’t know John that well, but the smile said that they shared a private secret. “Of a sort, my dear man.”  
“It was cyanide,” Molly interrupted.   
Watson nodded as if he’d expected this answer all along. “Miss Hooper, if you’ve given the detective inspector the answer he requires, would you mind if I borrowed you for a moment to speak privately?”  
Molly was a bit of a timid woman. She replied shakily, “We could go down to the cafeteria?”   
Watson extended an elbow, which Molly took with a nervous giggle. They departed, leaving Greg to stand alone in the morgue. He waited for a few minutes for them to return, but decided it’d be better off to simply continue on with his day and let forensics know it was cyanide.   
As he departed the building, he caught sight of Molly and John through the glass walls of the dining hall. They were leaning close across the table.   
To his surprise, he felt a sizzle of possessive spite frisson through his stomach. It was clear, even from this distance, that they weren’t flirting, however. Watson was explaining something, hands clasped tightly and face expressively relaying important details. Molly was leaning in, eyes wide and face flushed with excitement.   
Sherlock called him later that day as Greg was packing up his things to go home from work. He braced himself as he answered the call with the knowledge that it could very well be Jim again.   
“Greg, dearest cousin,” Sherlock said. “I wanted to tell you I’ve arranged for you to have tea with Molly.”   
Greg startled. “Oh? For when?”   
“Tonight, seven.”   
“Why?”   
“Because you like her and she likes you, and I refuse to be useless third party to blooming romance.”   
Greg remained silent.   
“Also she asked me to organize a chance for you two to speak,” Sherlock continued.   
“That sounds more like it,” Greg said. He heard Sherlock giggle on the other side of the line. “Alright, I’ll go.”   
“I knew you would,” Sherlock crowed. He could be kind of like a frivolous child sometimes. “It’s at Speedy’s, don’t be late, Molly hates people being late.”   
Greg only barely made it through London traffic to arrive at his home at five minutes to seven. Molly was waiting in the cafe, still in the same clothes as she wore earlier at the morgue, minus the lab coat.   
“Hello again,” Greg smiled. Molly really was rather cute, and Greg truly was quite single.   
“Greg, good, I’m glad you’re here,” Molly said, gesturing to the seat across from her. The table they were at was at the very back of the cafe, in the most private corner. Greg could see his front door from his seat. “I have the most amazing thing to tell you.”  
Greg gratefully accepted a cup of coffee that appeared at his elbow. “Well, lay it on me.”   
“I realized, I know Watson already.”   
Greg took a sip of his coffee. “I thought as much, you seemed pretty familiar when he was inquiring about the poison.”   
“No, I mean, I knew him before that and didn’t even know it,” Molly leaned forward over the table as if imparting state secrets. “I’d seen him, years ago, when I was studying at Oxford. I saw him going for a walk every day.”   
Greg shifted his shoulders and shook his head slightly. “Okay?”   
“His daily walks, with Sherlock Holmes!”   
That startled Greg. “Watson knows Sherlock?”   
“He did, Greg, he did,” Molly said excitedly. “At Oxford, they were the closest couple. I mean, the way John looked at him, it was-- it was as if Sherlock hung the moon and all the stars. But John shipped off to war, and I guess I forgot about all of it until he mentioned it today.”   
“Huh,” Greg said, leaning back. “How ironic that they’re neighbors now, then.”   
“Not ironic at all,” Molly said, near bouncing with her level of eagerness now. “He bought this flat, the whole flat, just to be across from him.”  
Greg snorted. “No, there’s no way.”   
“It’s true, he told me today. He loves Sherlock, he’s always loved Sherlock. He’s doing everything to be near him. All of those cases, the private detective business? He posts it all on a blog, hoping Sherlock will come to him and solve them.”   
“But he’s married,” Greg said pointedly. “And not the whole flat, since I live in part of it.”   
“He rented it to you, Greg,” Molly said as if talking to a child. “He rented it specifically to you because you’re related to Sherlock. He’s going to ask you for a favor, and if I were you, I’d start preparing yourself to answer it now.”   
Greg was utterly confused. “He rented-- wait, what favor?”   
Molly shook her head, gulping down the last of the tea in front of her. “I can’t say, but he’s going to ask you soon. See you round, Greg.”   
And then she was gone, and Greg was left to go back to his little flat. He looked around at the walls that were tastefully dull, the only tiny flat with an entrance through a cafe in a block of expensive appointments.   
Maybe Molly was right. Maybe that wasn’t coincidence.   
The next day, the note was waiting on the floor in front of his mail slot.


	4. Chapter 4

Greg and Sherlock were not as close as some cousins, but nowhere near as distant as others. He’d seen Sherlock usually twice a year. Once at Christmas, when the cousins all met on the Holmes estate in the country, and another on their yearly vacation to the coast of France. Sherlock got on well with all of the cousins-- it was rather hard to dislike Sherlock. He exuded charm and innocence, and everyone wanted to bask in his glow.   
Sherlock and Greg had one important thing in common, however, that allowed Greg to gain priority over the other cousins. He loved mystery, and investigation, and he wanted to be a detective.   
Sherlock and Greg would play deductions, narrowly escaping the draconian watch of Sherlock’s stuffy older brother to track footprints along the sand.   
“Look, this man had a club foot,” Sherlock would say, pointing at indentations along the beach.   
“This was a woman with a cane,” Greg would reply, pointing out the dips of the heels and the round mark of the cane.   
Sherlock and Greg spent most of their time together then, when they were together. Around fifteen, the Lestrade branch of the family tree stopped joining the vacations. They were less wealthy-- had married into a few spendthrifts, and lost the old money that had come as Greg’s great grandmother’s dowry. Greg’s parents, he guessed, had tired of being looked down upon around the mahogany dinner table.   
After that, Greg and Sherlock didn’t really speak. Greg started his vocational training to become a detective, and he wasn’t sure what Sherlock did. He assumed he’d done something similar, put the big brain he had to work, maybe even charm his way into a position at Scotland Yard without ever going through training.   
When Greg saw his marriage announcement a few years later, though, he wasn’t very surprised. Sherlock was still old money, and old money still married for connections. James Moriarty was one of the most powerful bankers in England, and the photographs in the paper showed a very expensively appointed wedding.   
Now, with what Molly told him, it appeared that Sherlock had gone to college before meeting Moriarty. He’d been with John, and from what she’d said, had been happy. Greg wasn’t a relationship expert, but he was a detective, and the way Jim had talked over and disrespected Sherlock during their dinner was indicative of more private offenses. Greg didn’t like the idea of his cousin in a situation like that, but had little opportunity to intervene.   
So when the invitation for a night at a club with John Watson came through his mail slot, Greg took it.   
***  
John pulled the Audi in front of Greg, opening the passenger door with the push of a button. “Greg, my dear man, thank you so much for your company.”   
Greg smiled. John seemed nervous. “Of course.”   
“Now we’re going to a club of mine, I own it, I mean,” John said, carefully weaving away through the other cars. “I own a great deal of establishments here in London, the very best way to get information. And of course you know, it’s impossible to solve a mystery without information.”   
Greg nodded. He was just grateful that John was a better driver than Jim.   
“That’s what I do, my dear man,” John said, eyes ahead on the road. “I solve mysteries for people. If their husband is cheating, if they’re losing money but not spending it, that sort of thing. I help people, Greg, when I can.”   
Greg had the oddest urge to comfort John. Though it was an entirely different place and time, he had deja vu to speaking with Sherlock on the balcony.   
“You see, I went to Oxford, I studied there for a while, medicine-- but then I was sent to the front lines. I fought alongside my fellow men, and once the troops were withdrawn, I was given a rather large discharge package. I used it to buy myself properties around London, some art, some fine things for myself,” John said casually. “But I didn’t want to be a property manager. That’s what I do at Baker Street, by the way. Your flat, in fact, is part of my property, is everything alright there, my dear man?”  
“It’s perfect, actually,” Greg said.   
John breathed relief. “That’s good, if there’s any improvements that can be made, anything at all, you just let me know.”   
They pulled up at a brick building. As they walked over the gravel toward the entrance columns, Greg spotted a small plaque that read “Diogenes Club”.   
They were guided silently to a richly carpeted back room, where, once the door was shut behind them, John breathed a sigh of relief.   
“So, what was it that you wanted me for?” Greg asked, reclining in one of the leather armchairs. John poured whiskey from a crystal decanter and handed it to him before answering.   
“I wanted to tell you about my businesses,” John started, taking a sip from his own whiskey. “I have a number of properties, and of course my little detective business. But I wanted to show you that I-- I am quite a reputable man.”   
Greg furrowed his brow. “Why would I think otherwise?”   
“People sometimes make assumptions,” John said nervously. “For example, that I am the cause of the crimes I investigate.”  
Greg smiled encouragingly. “No, I’m the detective inspector, I’d know if you were causing a great deal of crimes.”   
John relaxed again. He seemed like a spring, growing tenser and tenser and then releasing, only to wind up again. “Truly, my dear man, the reason I brought you here-- told you this--, well I… I need to ask a favor of you.”   
“Anything.” Greg said, and was surprised to find that there was very little he wouldn’t do to help this lonely man.   
“I just ask, that when you find yourself on a case that is exceedingly confusing that you,” John took a sip, and paused to consider his next words. “I would have you ask Sherlock for his help on the case.”   
“Sherlock?” Greg said. “I mean, he played detective when we were kids, but I’d think you’d want to be--”   
“I would also like to join in the investigation,” John took a deep breath before turning to look into Greg’s eyes. What Greg saw there made his chest clench. John’s eyes shined with raw desperation and flayed open heartbreak. “I would just like to see him work again. See his mind again, see him. If we could both be together, on the case, I swear I would-- I’d owe you my life, my dear man.”   
Greg felt his throat stick. People hold their emotions so close, displaying only what was acceptable, that it felt sickening and wrenching to see someone so honestly and earnestly showing all of their feelings. “Of course. Of course I will, Watson. I’ll let you both know once I get a case.”   
John slumped back in his chair, tilting more whiskey into his mouth and looking at the ceiling. “Let us both know, separately. He can’t know I’m coming or else he-- he might not show up.”   
Greg nodded. They spent the rest of the evening looking into the fire in their plush chairs and loosening their ties. John had a cab sent to take Greg home.


	5. Chapter 5

Greg calls John on his personal number two weeks later. He gives him the details of a case that came across his desk.  
“No, no,” John said in a frustrated and upset tone. “I know what that is, it’s the Wolfsheim business. Go to the Vauxhall Arches tonight at ten, my dear man, and the case will be solved for you.”  
Greg waits and again calls John with a case. “It’s a locked room, surely that must be good enough for you and Sherlock.” If he was being honest, he felt anxious and excited. He wanted Sherlock and John to meet again after all these years, but he was also Sherlock’s cousin, and knew he was married.  
“I can’t this week,” John said desperately. “I’m up to my neck in-- my dear man, I apologize deeply, but you must wait for the next one.”  
The third time, however, hit the money. A series of suicides, all taking the same poison, all in strange places.  
John breathed shakily on the other end of the call when Greg finished explaining the crimes. “Have you-- called Sherlock yet?”  
“No, I’m waiting for you.”  
John sounded like he was shaking apart. “Yes, yes, call him. I’ll meet you-- both of you, at Lauriston Gardens.”  
Greg hung up, and dialed his cousin.  
***  
Greg remembered the first time he saw Marilyn Monroe on the screen. It had been a television rerun of “Some Like it Hot”, which he’d been idly watching while bored in college. He remembered the way his breath stopped for a moment when she popped her head out onscreen and he saw her smile. He’d seen pictures of her, everyone had, but it was different. The memory stuck in his mind, the way he saw someone suddenly become human and how it had caused his heart to stutter.  
Seeing Sherlock walk on the crime scene was like that. He was so tall and waifish, sweeping on the black pavement in his black coat. He smiled beatifically, and for a moment, Greg could only smile back dumbly. Sherlock, like Marilyn, could knock the breath out of you if he chose to turn his brightness up a notch for the occasion.  
“Hello cousin mine,” Sherlock said brightly. “I’m so very excited, I haven’t played deductions in ages.”  
“Well it is a dead body up there,” Greg reminded him.  
He waved his hand dismissively. “Is it through that door?”  
Greg panicked, unsure how to hold back Sherlock to wait for John to arrive, when he noticed a cab that had pulled up, and saw John climb out.  
Sherlock, catching his gaze and following it, turned to watch the man approaching.  
John looked different from any way Greg had seen him before. He wasn’t in a well cut suit or blue dress shirt that matched his eyes. For the first time, Greg was seeing John in jeans. He was wearing a subtly military-styled jacket and plain leather shoes. His hair wasn’t slicked back, but rather casually brushed to the side.  
He turned away from looking at this new, dressed down John, to see Sherlock’s reaction. His face was blank in shock, but his eyes were shiny with awe.  
“Hello Greg,” John said smoothly. He turned to look up at Sherlock, who had his hands deep in his pockets and was hunched slightly to look back in John’s eyes. He looked, for the first time in the entire time he’d known Greg, entirely human. “Sherlock.”  
“John,” he breathed in return.  
“I was called to inspect the body?” John said, admirably holding together, glancing at Greg.  
Greg couldn’t contain his smile as he led the two of them up to the body.  
He held in each question that threatened to burst from his tongue as Sherlock played deductions over the real dead boy and John kept up a running stream of admiration. By the time Sherlock had reached his conclusion, they were both a bit flushed from excitement and embarrassment.  
Greg didn’t hear from them again until one AM the next morning, when they found Sherlock with a body in an empty college. He didn’t have to ask. He knew by the way their eyes connected across the parking lot that they’d reconciled. In his own private way, he observed the way they traveled back and forth across Baker Street for the rest of the autumn, and the whole street seemed to glow with their love. Because for all the light Sherlock exuded, he need a conductor to share it with the world.

***  
So it continued. Jim drove off in his red sports car, and Sherlock left through the front door. Greg passed him on his walk down to his police cruiser in the morning. John’s step was darkened by a skinny man in a long coat every day for the rest of the season, as if he couldn’t stand to be in the stifling oriental rug of his own flat anymore.   
Greg told John every interesting case he had, and John brought Sherlock in his silver Audi. Sherlock got better and better at solving cases, finding conclusions sooner and more accurately. John, for his part, only grew more and more enthralled by every wave of his hand. He saw them, once, softly kiss in an eave in Scotland Yard. He had to look away, the way his throat closed suddenly.   
As of all great things, it had to end. The beginning of that ending started with five pips on a pink cellphone.


	6. Chapter 6

Greg, despite being terrified by the mad bomber running around London, enjoyed watching John and Sherlock work together. It was hard to notice, since Sherlock always had a patina of light and carefree charm, but he’d been deteriorating under Jim’s thumb. After only a few months with John, his figure had filled out to a healthy size, his voice was stronger, and he even managed to defend himself against the staff that called him names.   
Sherlock alone was sweet, but fragile. John was his protection, and together, they were stronger.   
The cases were solved on time limits, each one operated through a different voice on a phone. When one proxy speaker gave too much information and was executed, John knelt on the carpet of Greg’s office to comfort Sherlock as he sobbed into his hands.   
He couldn’t make out the words exactly, but he knew it was more than simply the damage Sherlock’s mistake had caused. Sherlock was crying into John’s shoulder, repeating the words “playing” and “mistake” between other mumbled oaths and regrets.   
Greg watched the time pass, and then interrupted the two. They needed to finish this.  
***  
Sherlock had arranged with the police to hang a camera in the pool. He knew where this would end, he just didn’t know who would be waiting for him there.   
John was allowed to be taken by the bad guys.   
Sherlock was given a gun.   
Greg waited with bated breath on the screen in the van outside the building as Sherlock called out.   
John stepped out from the pillar and repeated the words in his ears. He looked truly terrified.   
And then Sherlock’s husband came through the door.   
Greg couldn’t see either of their faces, but he had audio feed.   
“Well, this is a turn up, isn’t it my little birdie?” Jim asked.   
“Please, don’t hurt him,” Sherlock said.   
“Don’t hurt him? HIM? Baby, your gun is pointed at me. Only time it has in months,” Jim conspiratorially nudged John. Greg hated the sarcastic jokes he was making, after strapping all those people up with bombs and making his husband responsible for those deaths.  
“It’s time to give up the game, James,” Sherlock said, almost too soft for the microphone to pick it up.   
“I rather agree, darling,” Jim drawled, toying with the zipper on John’s bomb jacket. “Go on, go outside and get in the car. I’ll come out in a minute and we’ll drive home.”   
“No.”   
“‘No’ isn’t an answer here, love, go get in the car and we’ll leave all of this behind us.”   
Greg could see Sherlock’s shoulders shaking with emotion. “No, I won’t.”   
Jim launched towards him, and a single gunshot fired. Jim collapsed to the ground, and Sherlock fell to his knees. John rushed over, soothing him, running his hands over his shoulders.   
Greg felt relieved that the man who’d been torturing Sherlock for all those years was gone, but he worried for John. Those years changed Sherlock, he wasn’t the same person he was at Oxford. What if they couldn’t repeat the past?   
What if Sherlock was caught for murder?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I can't change the ending of one of the greatest novels every written  
Also me: Want Gay Man Be Happy,,,,, sof t babey


	7. Epilogue

As it turned out, Greg’s fears never came to fruition.   
Jim’s death was ruled self defense, and in the divestment of his estate, it was found that he was guilty of several acts of fraud and embezzlement.   
The flat, subsequently, was seized by the government, but that was okay. Sherlock moved right in with John in 221 anyway. Over coffee, he whispered playfully to Greg that he liked the decor a lot better. Less stuffy, he said.   
Greg went on solving cases, and when one came to him that was too difficult to solve, he went to his neighbors.   
They had dinner together once a week, and Sherlock turned out to be an amazing cook. He’d never gotten the chance before, since Jim hired a chef and refused to let Sherlock do housework. Sherlock seemed so human, so real, in the kitchen of 221, that Greg stared every time. He seemed like an angel freed of the constraints of heaven.   
John saw it too, and smiled at Sherlock. Sherlock smiled back at his ex-lover and current partner like John had hung the stars in the sky.   
In the end, they couldn’t repeat the past. None of those interesting cases that John posted on his blog ever drew Sherlock to his door. It took a cousin and a mystery to bring the two back together.   
Instead, John and Sherlock moved forward into the future together, and the green light that had blinked in Sherlock’s window was darkened forever.


End file.
